


Other echoes inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

by Erradianwhocantread, fidelishaereticus



Series: common road/uncommon time [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (especially when you're immortal and I WAS THERE GANDALF), (finrod voice) Fuck what Pengolodh said, Agender Character, Benevolent Creeper, Gen, Rule 63, history is a bitch, quintessential elven longing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 20:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12066462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erradianwhocantread/pseuds/Erradianwhocantread, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fidelishaereticus/pseuds/fidelishaereticus
Summary: It's the third age and Finrod is still benevolently creeping on certain humans: the more things change. Aragorn catches her and she blows her cover: a fortuitous chance, since it turns out Aragorn is in dire need of some remedial history. Drunk History Hour with 1st Age Legend Finrod Felagund ensues.Meanwhile Finrod struggles with. some feelings. it's been a while.





	Other echoes inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unremembered As Old Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913747) by [Erradianwhocantread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erradianwhocantread/pseuds/Erradianwhocantread), [fidelishaereticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fidelishaereticus/pseuds/fidelishaereticus). 



> 1\. This fic, authored by fidelishaereticus, is a companion to "Unremembered as Old Rain" (authored by erradianwhocantread) : same events, from Finrod's perspective. Nearly all of the dialogue is lifted from that piece. 
> 
> 2\. Turns out Finrod's perspective is very verbose. Consequently, I am posting this piece in multiple chapters
> 
> 3\. Most characters are gender-flipped in some way. Aragorn (and several others) are rule 63, Finrod is agender and will happily take any pronoun (I use "she" here). It's a very lowkey gender-flipped AU, everything else is the same. 
> 
> 4\. This is an AU in which Finrod may have kind of sort of partially soul-bonded (as in an Elven marriage) with the entire line of Barahir, via the ring and the oath she swore and some (accidental? intentional? we just don't know?) enchantment. 
> 
> 5\. Thanks to erradianwhocantread for the original fic obviously, as well as for editing.

_Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard  
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on..._

* * *

 

Aragorn was in danger, Finrod told herself.

Oh, she was keen, and hardy after the fashion of men: a rough exterior and a wary eye. A true Ranger, much as her people had been of old, and guided by more wisdom than any Elf of her age could be expected to carry. Others, Finrod knew, would disagree with her on this last assertion, arguing that men, in their brief lives, could hardly attain true depth of wisdom, but to Finrod it seemed rather that men grew wise all at once, just as they lived. Swift as sparks they took their forms, vigorous and whole-hearted, as if Time for them were both denser and more malleable, as if they were the very World distilled (and more besides: a will to change its form). It was a distillation she knew well, and one she loved to lay her head against; for in its proximity she felt that time stilled for her too, or else rearranged itself---an intoxicating effect. By chance she had stumbled on it when the world was young, bright as any jewel. It had leapt up as a blaze to meet her. It had burned and turned to ash in her hands.

Aragorn, Finrod reminded herself, was in danger. For all that she an exemplary of her race---and arguably as wise as many of Finrod’s own---there were powers in the world beyond her scope, and ever she placed herself in their path: dutifully, relentlessly, almost recklessly (if that word could ever be said of one so watchful as Strider). She must be vigilant; Aragorn must not be felled.

Therefore did she follow, and already once she had saved her charge from what might otherwise have been her end. It had proven an evil more effectively fought with spell than sword, yet the encounter had been close even for Finrod’s own enchantments, and she had been forced to spend one of her sister’s more potent charms, gifted her when last she had found respite under the boughs of Lothlorien.

The month of April had been young then, and that weariness which now so often drained and haunted Artanis had been almost driven back, it seemed, by the emergent green on the silver boughs; her spirit had been light, her eyes glinting with mischief as they had in ages past, and even as then they had exchanged long gossip and rolled through the leaves of the old year, down hills of carpeting gold. By some miscalculation, Finrod had rolled on straight into a river. Artanis, she noted, had not warned her to prevent it.

“My poor shadow, have a care!” She called after through her mirth. Finrod privately suspected it had been intentional.

She did not really mind, of course: it was their game, one she knew already she would could rarely win. Her sister’s shadow, indeed. Yet now, much to their joint amusement, this was apparently a title Finrod had acquired in earnest, given in mistake by those who sighted her and thought her either the Lady herself, or else some sorcery whereby she could divide herself into two beings, sending one to wander the world and do her bidding, while the other remained behind in Lothlorien. _The Shadow of the Lady Galadriel._ The resemblance was not insignificant, and the light in Finrod’s eyes, together with her hair and skill in enchantment, certainly narrowed the choices down. Perhaps it could not be helped.

As Finrod had dried herself back in a nearby flet, the Lady had been laughing still. “And what a poor shadow you make!” she had said, “I should never be so clumsy.” If Finrod had not already been well on her way to scheming her revenge, she certainly was now. “But,” she had continued, “if you must insist on going abroad as such, you ought at least to bear some token of my craft. I should hate for you to tarnish my reputation.” With these words, she had produced three pre-woven spells: one bound in glass, one in string, and one in wood.

“For an hour of need,” she had said, and her eyes narrowed. “Which no doubt you will meet. Though if, in your heedless devotion, you lose your body a second time on some wild chase,  I will personally see to it that you lose it a third.”

At least it had not come to that. Artanis would know, no doubt, that her spell had been used, and she would have to answer for it (and that may in part have been her will). No doubt she would call it recklessness. No doubt she would also say that Finrod should depart, now that the immediate danger passed. But was it not clearly her sworn duty, after a scare like that, to see the heir back to the comfort and safety of Rivendell? And if she followed closer than usual . . . surely that was within reason. The Enemy was stirring. These were dangerous times.

One step nearer Finrod crept through the trees, noiseless, her bright hair well-concealed beneath her hood. The mortal was preparing a fire, now: she had not seemed to see her. Looking on then, Finrod caught her breath. There, half-silhouetted against the fading light, Aragorn might have been any one of her ancestors---even Beor or Barahir she might have been---for she employed the exact same method of fire-starting as all of that house had in the first age. There were many ways to start a fire, but theirs had been particular---almost ritualistic---and they had proudly insisted it was the best. Had they passed it down all these years, parent to child, or was it simply ingrained in them, a part of them, repeating…? Finrod stopped the thought before it ran well away from her, and almost laughed aloud at her sentimentality. True, there were many ways to start a fire, but not so _very_ many as all that; and Aragorn might have come across this technique in any number of less romantic ways. It was a little thing, of no significance. And yet between it, the resemblance, and the proximity, Finrod felt a the pull of an unheard music more clearly than she had in years.

She ventured one tree closer, chiding herself as she did. Her eyes did not need it. She could pick out every detail from where she had been. The danger did not call for it. _But the music…_ the closer she crept the more strongly it sang out, collapsing the distance between them. And had that not been the point of this foolishness, all along? Finrod sighed inwardly. She had never had it in her to be overmuch dishonest---either with others or with herself. Yes, of course that had been it. Her protection had been needed, but she had not needed to stay. And yet there was still the music, as she called it: her peculiar bond with the Dunedain, manifested as an air about them---a delicate strand for her ear alone. And how well she loved it---the thrill it sent though her---familiar and yet new, unexpected, always and never the same.

She knew the source of it, of course, for it had been of her own devising. It was what summoned her to their aid; and it was why she should not stay. She still marveled it had lasted so long. An artifice, some had called it. A pale and desperate substitute for what Finrod might have had, had she bonded _properly_. Finrod, of course, had never stooped even to take offense at that. For others, she knew, said of Felagund rather this: bound herself rather as to the ever-changing world itself---marred as it was---again and again, in hope and in wisdom, in foolishness and in delight. That, she hoped, was somewhat closer to the truth. And what else had she had, to hang her love upon? A feeble token it seemed (a ring, an oath), and yet it served. Long ago it had drawn Finrod back even from the peace of Aman: for in all that blessed realm nothing was quite so fair to Finrod's mind as this half-music was to hear (and oh, it was as exquisite and as tormenting as ever it had been---broken, fragmented, re-arranged), no business quite so gratifying as this oath was to attend, and no land so diverse and enthralling as this middle-earth was to explore.

    Not until Aragorn stood and turned casually in her direction did Finrod realize that she had stepped well out from behind her hiding place: immediately she withdrew, her pulse racing. Had she seen…? She peered out from behind the shadows, quiet as night. No, no of course not. Her cloak concealed her well, and mortal eyes (no matter how exemplary) were not so keen without the sun. Aragorn was simply passing by, making her way a little into the woods to relieve herself. _She was so close._ Finrod had to remind herself that the mortal could not feel their bond as she did---that the pull and the music was a one-sided sensation, that mere _feeling_ could not reveal her presence (impossible though that seemed to her, loud as it now sang). She had not hitherto known whether the heir still carried her ring, but Finrod assumed now that she must: it seemed the only reasonable explanation. But she was safe! Mortals could not sense such things; not without practice. In all these years it had never yet given her away.

    She was returning now. She would pass by this tree again as she did ( _so close_ ). Her hair hung loose about her shoulders in dark coils, and swung as she passed by through the darkening shade. _If only…_

    All at once the mesh of coils sprang to life, whipping round sharp as blades. Finrod tried to leap back (how had she let herself step so close? she did not know; had she reached out?) but swift hands caught her by the cloak, threw her deftly, pinned her down. Above her a knife gleamed in the darkness--- _“Wait!”_

At her cry the movement stopped---the knife stopped---the mortal started, slackened, stared. Finrod might have escaped then, but she could not move---she could not think. The heir of Isildur was upon her. She smelled of wilderness and smoke and human stench (she had not bathed in weeks, it would seem); one half-matted tendril of her hair fell down and tickled the elf’s cheek. Her eyes roved over Finrod’s features in confusion and disbelief. The moment passed as Aragorn seemed to master herself; both her grip and her eyes hardened.

“Why were you following me?”

The demand was rough, but not altogether unkind. Well. This was happening. Finrod blinked softly and answered with what she hoped was a steady tone. “I can explain that.”

For an instant the ranger’s expression relaxed, but this time she did not loose her hold. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Don’t try to tell me Imladris, for I would recognize you and I do not.”

Finrod sighed. For a moment, she had almost dared to wonder....but no. And why should she? She had taken special pains to ensure that she would _not_ be recognized, and most especially not by the Dunedain. She remembered still when that secrecy had been new to her, how unnatural it had felt. She smiled, ruefully. So much, then, for hundreds of years of concealment. She had been over-bold. Aragorn had caught her fairly, and now she demanded the truth: and so her demand would be granted.

“I come not from Imladris,” Finrod began, “or from anywhere recently, for I have been long wandering. I have been following you, but only to offer protection where it has been needed. You remember several months ago, when that great Orc had you down, and you were injured and alone? A strange archer felled it and you did not stay to see the provenance of the arrow?” Finrod paused for Aragorn’s response; a terse nod---her brow still furrowed, her eyes intelligent. At such proximity (her face hardly a foot away) the resemblance, which Finrod had noted from afar, was even more striking. And it was not merely physical. It was more in how she held herself---all her subtleties of movement---the way her forehead lined, the shape of her words (and how she felt, too---the form and weight of her). “As I’m sure you have guessed now,” Finrod continued, “the arrow was mine. For the matter of my name, scion of Barahir, I have had many. But you would know best those of Finrod and of Felagund.”

Oh, this was a fun reaction to watch. And she could count on two hands the number of times, since her return, that she had allowed herself the pleasure of viewing its effect. Aragorn gaped in shock; the knife dropped from her hand. It was then that Finrod thought, for the first time, to confirm for certain her suspicions concerning the ring. Ah---yes. Caked though it was with mud, the serpents of the house of Finarfin met still beneath flowering crown, their emerald eyes lit dimly through the grime.

“I see you still wear my ring,” she noted. “I am glad that it has not been lost.”

By this time Aragorn’s look of shock had turned to one of mortification. She dismounted as swiftly if Finrod were now made of fire, and scrambled to her feet. Finrod breathed a moment to collect herself, then stood lightly. Aragorn was already on one knee, bowing low.

“Oh, pardon me, my lord, pardon me, for--” Her words stopped as Finrod placed one hand upon her chin, guiding her gaze upwards.

How easily that touch came to her. She did it unthinkingly, and her skin itself sang out at the contact. The heir's face, though well-formed, was rough as the rest of her, pricked with hair and dimpled with small scars, yet her eyes shone out from it as the emeralds from her ring. Time swam still about her; the music rippled and flourished, brimmed, and for an instant all that hid behind it showed its head, unfolding itself in full. _This..._

No, she should not have touched her. What would Artanis---what would _Elrond_ say? But then, she should never have approached the fire, she should never have come back to this land at all, and yet... and yet how had she deprived herself of this for so long? She laughed, and knew too that there were tears in her eyes. "No, no" she heard herself say. None had knelt before her thus in ages; and here Aragorn had no idea… the entire situation was absurd. “No,” she repeated, mastering herself a little, “you must not kneel to me. And it is I who should apologize for my discourtesy in following you. These are dark times.” Still she heard her own voice as from far-off, while with her other hand she helped the ranger to her feet. “You had every reason to be suspicious. And please, you may call me Finrod.”

Aragorn was surveying her now with understandable confusion, her posture uncharacteristically awkward, hardly daring to meet her eye. Finrod could feel her mind fumbling for the correct manners---for the correct _pronouns_ even, for the occasion. She laughed: this had always been a point of amusement.  “Either will do,” She offered. “I was never a particular devotee of grammar, and I confess it has always brought me no small delight to make a mess of the lore-master’s strict rules…” But now the poor mortal looked even more disgruntled. Of course: she had quite forgotten how startling it could be to them, when the loose strands of their thoughts were grasped before they spoke. “Oh, I am sorry,” she apologized hastily, and Aragorn seemed to understand. She had been raised with elves; she did know. “I have not been much among Men in… well, quite some time,” she explained, then paused. She felt herself more grounded now, and yet a little sad for it. Aragorn still did not speak, but her composure for the most part had returned to her. “You have been much in danger of late, Aragorn, heir of Isildur and so of Elros and so of Beor,” Finrod explained. “Your safety was my concern. Now that you have discovered me, may I share your fire?”

Aragorn nodded wordlessly, but there was an openness now in her expression that had not been there before, and Finrod did not need to look into her mind to read it: the welcome was clear, if a little dazed. Finrod stepped into the ring of light and arranged herself cross-legged beside the fire. Seeing that Aragon lingered still amongst the trees, Finrod smiled back at her---gently, cautiously---and beckoned with one arm for her to join.  An unexpected shyness overcame her as she did so, and she looked back to the fire as Aragorn took her seat beside her, no more than a pace or two away. _So close…_ and yet very, very far she now seemed. No, despite the resemblance, and despite the strength of the bond Finrod had effected through love and memory and artifice, this was not Barahir or any other of that line that sat beside her: this was a stranger. She did not know whether Aragorn, like Beor, made in her spare time sketches of the lands as she passed through them (Beor had loved particularly the challenge of capturing movement---of wind through the trees or running streams or of wild beasts); she did not know whether, like Barahir, she could not stand the taste of anything remotely bitter (not even tea! only the sweetest of tastes for that delicate tongue---an amusing contrast it had made to her personality).  She tried to remember this as she looked on Aragorn again through the flickering light, tried not to hang too much upon the suggestion of her form, but she found (both to her sadness and delight) that the stream of memories almost obscured her. It did not help, of course, that Aragorn behind them was so difficult and close. True, she had allowed an opening, but the chink was very small and not much could be glimpsed through it: a mind inquisitive, wary, polite...nothing _particular,_ though. Nothing to give her away.

Quite unexpectedly, then, the subject of her observation spoke. Finrod blinked, taking a moment to resurface from her reflection. Full darkness had descended now, and the stars shimmered obscurely through a whispering of cloud.   _You are melancholy,_ she had said.

Finrod smiled---sadly, no doubt. ‘Melancholy’ had not been a word often applied to her in ages past, and she did not want to appear thus---to this mortal least of all.

“If I am,” she conceded aloud, “it is no more so than are many of the Eldar. Our joy is ever mixed with grief.”

Aragorn seemed ill-satisfied with this response. The shadow beneath her brows contracted, all else about her still. “And yet it seems that this grief is attached to me somehow,” she said, “and I do not understand why.”

As she spoke, Finrod felt suddenly an intent scrutiny upon her---piercing, yet not unsettling: it opened her effortlessly. No secrets, then.

“It is,” she answered plainly. “As is the joy. You remind me much of one well loved and lost to me.” She paused, holding her gaze steady. As her companion seemed not quite yet to have grasped her meaning, she continued. “In your face I see the face of my dear Barahir of old returned to me, and yet not so. And so your company is both sweet and bitter.”

Now Aragorn looked away, the scrutiny of her gaze replaced entirely by bemusement, and a  return of her former uncertainty. “But…” she spoke stiltedly, “your love was for Amaire, was it not?”

At that Finrod laughed outright, and a little loudly. She did not mean to. Her companion already felt awkward enough, but she could not help it. “I would have thought the libraries of Imladris held something more accurate than Pengolodh’s account!” She tried very hard to keep the condescension out of her voice. What would they be saying next? Really, develop feelings for a Vanya _once_ in Aman and… A dark thought occurred to her, then, and her expression became grave. “Do… do you truly not know of what I speak?”

Poor Aragorn looked like a child whose knowledge had been put suddenly to test by a demanding tutor---unfortunate, but Finrod had to know.

“I know of your friendship to Beor,” the ranger continued, “of your oath to Barahir after she saved your life, of your faithfulness to Beren…”

 No. _...no_. Finrod shook her head, and felt her hair fall soft and hot around her face in an angry cloud.

 _Friendship._ Yes, Finrod was familiar with this contrivance. Her first time hearing it she had spit out her wine and laughed till dawn, taking it in humor and good faith. One could not blame them! They had they had not been there—they did not know! Perhaps it was merely a shorthand. She had laughed in the second instance, too, and then again in the third: after all, it was only to be expected that falsehoods would multiply amongst the ignorant over time. The wise, she had trusted, knew the truth, and surely that was sanctity enough.

Yet Aragorn was not ignorant. She had been amongst the wise, and indeed, she should have had the best tutoring in these matters of any mortal living, better than that of most elves. To add to which, she bore the ring! The truth concerned her intimately. For the Chieftain of the Dunedain herself to be ignorant of it...clearly, Finrod had not even begun to fathom the extent to which these apocrypha had taken hold. And oh, what a clever lie it was. For “friendship” it indeed had been, true enough—just as every great love ought---and yet this account of her relational history with the house of Beor was no ode to the interplay of Love and Friendship; this was dismissive, and deliberately so: and a lie by omission. And what about the truth, she now wondered, so begged censorship? Was it that she had loved so unexclusively, and more than once? Or was it just the fault of slovenly research and ill fate that, while Felagund had been thoroughly immortalized in legend, this aspect of her story (so intrinsic to her motivations) had been omitted, oversimplified, and lost to the ages? Whatever happened to that ballad Maglor had so kindly written for them after Beor’s death---before she had so kindly murdered a handful of Beor’s descendants? How thoughtful of her, to wait until Felagund was safely dead. “Friendship” indeed… Time was when everyone had known, and many had not minded in the least! A few were even still alive to tell it! Galadriel knew, and certainly Elrond had been told. Why then had they not told Aragorn? How had they allowed this lie to triumph? Oh, she would have _words_ for them…

The fire shifted and Aragorn moved to tend it, hardly breaking her attention as she did. Finrod became once more acutely aware of that attention, the scrutiny withdrawn into a patient caution---something almost apologetic. Her gaze was not downcast, and yet she held it in check, assuming nothing, observing only what was given with a quiet reverence. Very different that reverence felt from that she had displayed earlier: more gentle than distant, and offered distinctly to the Finrod of _now--_ -as she sat by this fire on this night---and her alone.

Finrod closed her eyes and banished the ire from her expression as best she could. No, by no fault of her own had Aragorn been lied to. Perhaps this meeting _was_ fortuitous, albeit ill-advised.

She locked eyes with her companion. “I will tell you, but it is a long tale.” With no less solemnity, she added: “And I believe I am correct in my recollection that your kind are still much like mine, and prefer long tales to be accompanied by strong drink.”

This last remark seemed to bring Aragorn back into her realm of comfort, and she matched Finrod’s solemnity with a conspiratorial inclination of her head. “That,” she agreed, “I can not deny.”

“Good.” Finrod produced a skein from inside her cloak. Easily she might have reached out and passed it the short distance between them, but she could not herself the pleasure of tossing it---if only to watch her companion snatch it deftly out of the air with one hand. The ranger did not disappoint.

“It is quite strong,” she warned, “something Beor introduced me to: a distillation of potatoes. You still drink it?” 

Aragorn raised the skein to her lips with a wry smile.

“I made a spectacle of myself the first time I had it,” Finrod added. “We’d not yet applied distillation to such purposes.” 

At this Aragorn almost laughed. Her eyes laughed, perhaps—or close enough. “Is that how the story begins, then?” She inquired. “One of the first of the Edain getting the Elvenking embarrassingly drunk?”

“No,” Finrod answered, smiling as best she could, “Though that is a merry tale.” She paused. “The tale to come is merry, too, as I hope you will understand. For all was not sorrow then, not even with a doom upon us, and the enemy at our gates. That is much of what your accounts leave out, I find. How we reveled here, even in that brief time: the joy we had… Though the ending, one might say, is all the sadder for it.”

She hesitated. She had assumed that she would sing the tale, but now she felt her mind sinking back into mannish customs like an old cloak, and singing felt somehow dissonant with her intent. For Men, she recalled, any tale told in song was on some level a performance, and that was not what she meant to do. Besides which, she would not know where to begin the song, nor where to end it, nor even what language to put it in. She shied away too from the finality of verse, as well from its power to mythologize: Aragorn already knew the Felagund of legend; but this was _herself_.

Plain speech, then. She held out her hand again for the flask and Aragorn tossed it back. Taking only one small draft to warm her tongue, she began.

 


End file.
